


someday when we're dreaming

by witheyesclosed



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: 1960s, Dreamsharing, Insecurity, Light Angst, Lucid Dreaming, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Self-Doubt, Sexual Fantasy, happy ending because i'm a hopeless romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:28:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25384573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witheyesclosed/pseuds/witheyesclosed
Summary: John begins having lucid dreams involving Paul, which he uses to live out his fantasies and repressed feelings. What John doesn’t know is that the Paul in his dreams is not a figment of his imagination, but the real Paul McCartney, who’s having shared dreams with him.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 13
Kudos: 104





	someday when we're dreaming

**Author's Note:**

> Lucid and mutual dreaming are such interesting concepts, so I wrote this! Hope you enjoy.

It was a Wednesday night, and John was dreaming of Paul again.

His bandmate had been appearing in his sleep ever since they’d met. Sometimes it was a fleeting glimpse of his familiar face in a crowd, and other times it was an intimate blur of languid touches, connected lips. At first John was ashamed of dreaming about Paul, of waking up hard because of him, but growing desire eventually overcame inhibition. He couldn’t help what his unconscious mind came up with, so he might as well enjoy it.

However, the dream John was having now was not one of the usual. A foreign sense of awareness filled his body from the beginning, a sharpness of the mind that he rarely experienced even when awake. Somehow, he knew he was dreaming. The empty streets of Liverpool filled his vision, but everything was coloured too vibrantly to be real. Familiar buildings in the distance blurred at the edges like watercolours, bleeding out into the sky.

John almost didn’t recognize the lonesome figure before him. Instead of his typical fantasy, the Paul of days past with a tight leather jacket and twinkling eyes, he saw the wearier Paul of the present. He was wrapped tight in a long black coat, sitting alone on a bench with a wistful expression staining his face. It was an eerily realistic vision. John would think himself awake if Paul weren’t crystal clear in the absence of his glasses.

“What’s my subconscious trying to tell me this time?” John asked the dream-Paul, sitting down beside him. Paul looked at him with a start, like he was only noticing John for the first time. Hazel eyes widened, trailing across his face curiously before finding some kind of resolve.

“I suppose you miss home,” Paul answered. His voice echoed around, softly repeating like a whisper in John’s ears. A light wind was mussing Paul’s dark hair, and John was startled to _feel_ the breeze against his own face as well. His dreams were rarely so tangible.

John scoffed lightly. “Well, I don’t miss _this_ place.” He ran his fingers over the small space between them, feeling the scratch of the wooden bench on his fingertips. _Strange_. “It’s the memories we made here that I miss. What we used to have.” Paul regarded him attentively, and his features were so close and striking that John reached out to touch him just to see if he could.

His hand lightly brushed against Paul’s jaw without resistance. Paul’s lips parted at the contact, but he didn’t move away. John felt every sensation as if Paul were really there before him, the warmth of his skin and the slight friction of stubble on his knuckles. Every sense was heightened. He heard each shallow breath from Paul’s mouth like they were pressed against each other, saw the details of every fleck in his eyes. _What do they call this...lucid dreaming? Am I really in control?_ Some would choose to fly in the clouds, or go on some grand adventure, but John took the opportunity to cup Paul’s face and press their lips together.

It was what he’d fantasized about for years but never been brave enough to do in reality. He’d kissed Paul in other dreams before, but he’d never really _felt_ it, nor chosen to do it outright. Not like that moment. John felt like they were falling into one another, melding into one body. Every slight movement had a shock of warm electricity flowing through him.

Paul was the comfort and safety of the home he never had. The brush of his lips, the soft _oh_ he released between them, it was all like returning to a place John had always known. It was as natural as singing, or as playing music together. It was two lost souls finding each other in the darkness.

Then the pressure was gone and Paul was pulling away from him. John frowned as they disconnected, mouth faintly tingling. _How can I be controlling this if he’s rejecting me?_ But Paul looked more shocked than disgusted, lips agape as his eyes searched John’s.

Paul raised a tentative hand, looked at it dazedly for a moment, and then brushed it down the side of John’s face. It sent a shiver through his body. “This is a dream,” Paul murmured, as if to himself. His expression was distant.

“I’m well aware of that, mate.” John’s eyes flickered back down to Paul’s mouth of their own accord, and he had to stop himself from leaning forward and taking what he wanted. “You’d never come this close to me, otherwise.”

“That’s not true,” Paul insisted, meeting his eyes. John stared back at him, tried to commit the feeling of the gentle hand on his face to memory. “You’d never _let_ me get this close.”

“You should try sometime,” John breathed, and when Paul’s eyes darted down to his mouth, John kissed him again. Paul moved with him this time and it was everything he could possibly imagine. He distractedly recognized a hand snaking in his hair, followed by a grasp that had his lips parting involuntarily.

John placed a hand on Paul’s thigh and could feel the heat of his skin burning through the clothing. The way the other man’s legs parted in response stoked twisting desire in his stomach.

“Tell me you want me, Paul,” John said, breathless as they broke apart for a moment. He supposed he could just think it and have it happen, but he didn’t wish to test his luck. “I need to hear you say it.”

Paul’s cheeks flushed. “God, I—I want you, John.” He emphasized his words with a heated kiss, a brush of velvet tongue that made the blood thrum in John's veins. “I’ve always wanted you. For so long.”

Deep down John knew it was all one pathetic fantasy, a figment of his sorry imagination, but the desire in Paul’s eyes was as real as anything he'd ever seen. And he would take it.

“Then have me.”

…

John awoke with a start, sucking in lungfuls of air as the white walls of his bedroom blinded him. His heart was pounding in his ears as he looked around. There was a warm body in bed beside him, but the flash of blond hair on the pillow squashed his hope that the dream was somehow real. _Of course not._ Cynthia stirred at the disturbance, throwing a curious look John’s way.

“Had a nice dream, did you?” She asked wryly. John followed her glance and realized with a flush that he was hard, tenting the blanket. _Christ_. The thought of _why_ he was in that state had both shame and arousal running through him.

“Can’t even remember what it was about.” He leaned down to plant a kiss on her forehead and tried to stabilize himself. “Must have been you.”

Cynthia laughed tiredly, patting his wandering hands. “Go back to bed, John. It’s too early.”

He didn’t think he could go back to sleep. The memory of Paul’s body against his, the caress of his mouth, the heat of his skin, it was an endless tape reel in his mind. The touches they shared, however imaginary, felt ingrained on him permanently. _I’ve really lost it now, haven’t I?_ No matter how hard he tried to leave his feelings in the past, to move on, Paul still found a way to torture him.

“It’s never too early to watch the world burn,” John said, and Cynthia buried herself in the covers with a sigh.

With a final glance at her, he slipped out of bed and shut himself in the bathroom. Lingering images of the dream filled his head as he undressed, stepped in the shower. He couldn’t shake the vividness, or the clarity, of what he’d experienced. In other dreams his deepest desires had controlled his actions, but this time, he’d been in control. John had felt as good as awake, and yet he still made the same decision. And he’d wanted to do much more.

The water dripping down his chest made him think of Paul’s lithe fingers running down his body, brushing against his face. If John tossed himself off to the thought of pushing Paul back against that bench, slotting a thigh between his legs and watching his pretty face contort in pleasure, then he blamed it on his overworked brain. In times like these he couldn’t deny what was presented to him so willingly. _If only that dream was longer_.

…

He noticed almost immediately when Paul started shooting glances at him in the studio.

It was nothing too out of the ordinary, nothing the others would recognize, but John sensed the man’s eyes boring into the back of his skull. Maybe that morning’s dream had just made John more aware of the scant attention Paul did give him. In any case his continued staring was very distracting. John took his opportunity to approach Paul when the band took a short break from recording.

Paul appeared almost identical to the version from his dream, albeit in different clothes. A brown button-down hugged his torso, highlighting his slender waist, and was tucked into tight black slacks. _Would the real Paul feel the same in my hands as the dream Paul? Would he kiss me the same way?_ John shook the thoughts from his head as he caught Paul's glance.

John sidled up to him, a teasing smile on his lips as he asked, “Something you’d like to say to me?”

Paul looked at him evenly, quirking his mouth in amusement. “Well, nothing in particular. But I’m guessing you’ll tell me?”

“Just noticed you’ve been looking at me an awful lot today.”

“Have I?” Paul glanced away as he shrugged. “Didn’t realize.”

He wore nonchalant like a second skin, and it was infuriating. John crossed his arms. “Admiring my beauty, were we?” He hoped to provoke Paul into some sort of response.

“Well, actually,” Paul ran a hand through his hair, pink tinging his cheeks, “you were in a dream of mine last night. Guess that was on my mind.”

“Oh?” _What a coincidence._ John felt himself warming up at the memory of his own dream. Though he doubted Paul’s was in any way similar to his. “And what was I doing in this dream of yours?”

Paul chuckled sharply. “Oh, you know, we were just talking or something. I barely remember.”

“That’s funny,” John said, “because you were in my dream as well.”

Paul’s eyebrows shot up. “Well then, we must be _psychically connected_.” They laughed for a moment, but something felt off. “I hope you weren’t beating me up or something,” Paul added more seriously. ”In your dream.”

“Trust me, it was _very physical._ ” John smirked, watching the way Paul's eyes darted away. “I joke. Unfortunately, all we did was... _talk_ , like in yours.” Paul hummed, smile fading as he looked down to his bass. John continued, “I’ll have to start charging you rent, though. Can’t have you taking up that space in my head for free.”

“Better to kick me out if you’ve had enough. It’s not my fault you’re that obsessed with me.” Paul was smiling again, and John couldn't help but chuckle with him. Paul didn’t even know the half of it, though John would never call his feelings an obsession. Paul was more of an addiction. A lifelong habit he couldn’t quit no matter how hard he tried to.

“I’ll be sure to kick you next time.” Paul shook his head as he bit his lip to hold back another smile. For now, things were back to normal between them. The lingering glances were explained away and life would go on as before.

…

A week later, he dreamt of Paul again.

They were laying side by side in some field of grass, a picturesque blue sky dotted with cotton candy clouds above. John thought he was alone at first, and was content to enjoy some peace for once, but a soft brush of a hand against his own drew his attention to the man beside him.

He turned his head to see Paul mere inches away, smiling fondly at him. He looked beautiful, frankly. The soft curve of his lips, the gentle slope of his nose, all brushstrokes forming one greater whole. Artificial sunlight played across his face like a work of art being illuminated. John would be content to dive into those features and never resurface.

“Hi,” Paul said quietly, glancing down at John’s mouth and biting his tongue. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“You just won’t leave me alone, will you?” John mused, taking the opportunity to rove his eyes over Paul’s face, admiring every detail. He distantly thought that he’d never get this close a view in real life.

“Do you...want me to?” Paul actually looked hurt at the prospect, and John hurried to assure him.

“Course not, Macca.” He turned his head to the sky again, Paul’s figure remaining in his peripheral. Sometimes it was too consuming to look at him head-on. “We’re... _best friends.”_

Paul pushed himself up on an elbow, peering over at him. “You don’t sound too happy about that.”

“Well, everyone wishes things were different, don’t they?” John told him, a bubble of frustration growing in his chest. This fantasy version of Paul was a little too realistic for his liking.

“Is that why you kissed me last time?”

John looked over at him hesitantly. He knew the Paul before him was a vision, but communicating his feelings had never come easy. Especially to himself. As it was in this case.

“It was a dream. I wanted to see what would happen.”

Paul pressed his lips together. Somehow John could feel his disappointment himself. “Just curiosity, then,” Paul said bitterly.

“Shouldn’t you know the reason?” John squinted at him. “I thought you were supposed to be my subconscious.”

Paul frowned, tilting his head. “Well, I’m not. Or at least...I don’t think I am.” He shook his head with a sigh. ”If this is all a dream, then just tell me, John.”

John sat up and ran his fingers through the silken grass. _If this is a dream, then what’s the harm? I can do whatever I want._ He closed his eyes, hoping he didn’t wake up accidentally, and thought with as much force as he could muster: _take us to Paris._

When he opened his eyes, the setting around them had transformed completely. It was the deep into the night, a chill in the air, and they were standing on a high balcony. A quick glance at the surroundings proved they really were in Paris, at the same hotel they stayed at for John’s birthday so long ago. They were both dressed in leather jackets and drainies, every aspect of the trip in John’s memory recreated seamlessly.

“Paris,” Paul said dazedly, leaning on the railing to gaze at the sky twinkling above. He looked younger, a perfect picture of the naive nineteen-year-old John had invited to escape to Spain with him. They never made it that far, of course. The city of love was enough to stop him in his tracks. “I remember this.”

“I should hope so. Spent big money on that trip, and all you got me was a hamburger.” Paul’s laughter was a burst of joy in the darkness, warming his heart. He hadn’t heard Paul laugh like that for a long time.

“Hey, you offered.” Paul nudged him, keeping his arm pressed against John’s. “It was very special to me. Honestly.”

“It would’ve been better if I’d told you the truth.”

Paul swallowed audibly, straightening to John’s height. “The truth? What do you mean?”

His heart was beating like a drum in his chest and blood burned down to his fingertips. _It’s just a dream, it’s just a dream._ John gripped the railing and forced out, “That I wanted you.”

It felt good to say the words aloud, even if Paul wasn’t actually hearing him say it. His bandmate’s eyes had widened ever so slightly, but he didn’t appear too surprised at the admission.

“Then redo that night,” Paul suggested, placing a hand on his arm. “Tell me now.”

It was an appealing fantasy. The love affair in Paris that he never had, and regretted almost every day since. What better thing to do in a lucid dream than to reconcile the past? Maybe if he did this, Paul would stop haunting his dreams. And his waking thoughts.

John stared deep into Paul’s eyes, tried to imagine that it was all real. They spent many of their nights in Paris like that, chatting on the balcony through the late hours of the night about things he no longer remembered. If he’d said something then, made a move…who knows. Maybe they would have stayed there forever. Maybe he would’ve found the connection he always desired.

“I…” The cool breeze rustled his hair, sharply contrasting against the warmth in his cheeks. “I want you, Paul.” The words were clumsy, unpracticed in his mouth. He was also vaguely embarrassed that the confession still rang true.

The hand on his arm tightened, and Paul pulled himself closer. “I want you, too.”

John wished he could record those words and listen to them on repeat forever. He wished he weren’t manipulating his friend to love him in his own dreams like some sick puppet master. More than anything, he wished it were real.

The world shifted around them in a blur and suddenly they were in the bed, John on his back and Paul hovering above him, eyes dark with only the moon illuminating the edge of his face. Paul lowered himself down, a slow press of lips melting them into one. Heated touches explored the other’s body with appreciation, as if committing each curve to memory. John ran a hand down Paul’s back, over the swell of his ass, earning him a sigh, and drew them flushed together fully.

“God,” Paul panted in his ear, “can’t believe this is happening.”

 _Except it isn’t happening._ Before John could think too deeply about that, a soft nip at his neck had all doubts flying out the window. Paul peppered kisses along the column of his throat, and the arousal of having their bodies together was all-consuming. Even in John’s greatest sexual encounters, pleasure had never felt like that. It was like the best acid trip of his life. He suspected it was the hypersensitivity of the lucid dreams, of gaining control over the part of himself with no limits. Or maybe it was because no one else before was like Paul. Whatever the explanation, John was aching hard in moments, and he was delighted to feel Paul in the same state against his thigh.

“Take this off,” John growled, tugging at Paul’s shirt. After their interruption last time, he didn’t wish to miss out on his second chance. John unbuttoned his own shirt and pulled off his restraining trousers for good measure, Paul following suit. _This is really happening then. I’m having a sex dream about my best mate._ It didn’t phase him as much as it should have.

John switched their positions, pushing Paul back against the thin mattress. His hands roamed freely over the expanse of pale skin before him. They had shared the bed when they stayed in Paris. John remembered watching Paul slip into the covers in a similar state of undress, but all he did was lay there and keep his desires to himself. But not anymore.

They kissed heatedly again and John allowed their bodies to grind against each other. The friction between them was like being on fire in the best way possible. He could get off like that and they had barely gotten started. If he were honest, Paul could probably shoot him a look and he’d be a goner.

“Ah, Johnny,” Paul breathed. “N—need more.” John would laugh at the man’s inarticulateness if he weren’t so turned on by it. He trailed a hand down Paul’s chest, teasingly palming him through his underwear. It made his throat run dry. Paul groaned at the touch, thrusting up against him. “C’mon, John, _please_. It’ll be morning by now.”

 _Right. Thanks for that, brain._ John hurriedly plunged his hand in, stroking Paul with quick flicks of his wrist. It felt so natural he questioned how something like that could be illegal. “Return the favour, eh?” He asked, voice stretched tight at the heavenly sight sprawled before him. Paul nodded distractedly and gripped John’s length in return. They were a groaning mess against each other, voices melding in a harmony of new heights. It was incredible, and as John felt himself approaching a climax, ready to spill over—

He woke up.

…

The entire day was ruined for him. He was even too peeved to jerk off in the morning. At work John was taunted by constant reminders that he and Paul were, not in fact, lovers, which only staked the dagger of reality deeper. He swore that the next time Paul appeared in his dream, if there was a next time at all, he was going to wish him away at first sight. It was too cruel to have him so close only to be ripped back to reality. Paul played enough mind games with him in person; he doesn’t need him actually _in_ his mind.

Whether subconsciously or on purpose, John used the real Paul to take out his frustrations. He knew it wasn't Paul’s fault that he kept dreaming about him, but it was easier to direct his anger at something. Even if that something stared back at him with soft doe eyes and swooping eyelashes.

“How’s this?” Paul asked him, demonstrating a bassline for one of John’s songs. It was good, as expected, but it wasn’t quite what he imagined.

“It’s a bit boring, don’t you think? Even for you.”

Paul gave him a dark look, pressing his lips together as he played the line again with some variations. “This up to your standards, then?”

John was already feeling better now that his feelings had an outlet. Paul’s anger fed into his own in a vicious cycle of cathartic release. He didn’t care if he was being an arse. Anger was his go-to remedy for all resentment and emotional damage, and it worked. “Maybe I’ll just get George to play this one.”

Paul glanced around them, _to see if anyone’s listening_ , John supposed, and his eyes were chillingly cold when his attention returned.

“Is there a reason you’re being a right prick?” Paul demanded quietly, tone laced with barely restrained vehemence.

John crossed his arms, staring him down. “Guess I haven’t been satisfied lately.”

“With me?” Paul cocked his head, daring him to continue. When John casually shrugged, he scoffed. “Oh, that’s rich. Well, maybe I haven’t been satisfied with you either.”

 _Someone’s got nerve_. “I play what you tell me to play, like always,” John sneered, ignoring Paul’s eye roll. “Or is controlling the whole band not enough for you anymore?”

“Alright, that’s enough!” Someone reprimanded from the control room. John gave Paul a last once-over, ignoring the hurt set of his mouth. _Whatever. He’ll get over it, like he always does._

“The second bassline is fine,” John muttered, the only form of an apology he could muster face-to-face. Paul almost looked like he was going to break the instrument over his head, but only dragged a tired hand down his face.

“Yeah, alright, John.”

 _I’m sorry_ , he wanted to say, _for expecting you to be someone I created in my head. It’s not your fault._

John forced himself to turn away and record the next take.

…

Paul appeared in his dreams a few nights later. John didn’t wish him away.

A dark silhouette loomed in the distance, illuminated by a bursting sunset that stretched through an endless pastel sky. John instinctively knew the figure was Paul, could feel the man’s eyes burning into his from afar. After deciding to follow through with whatever message his mind was trying to tell him, John headed onward. Time always seemed to run out when they were together.

Forthlin road blurred by in his peripheral. Once he came closer, he realized Paul was standing before his childhood home, the place where they’d spent countless days and nights losing themselves in music. It was also the place where John had begun to lose himself in Paul. Or maybe it was where he’d found himself.

“Strange being back here,” Paul murmured, gazing up at the brick facade with fascination.

John couldn’t help but note, “Not really here, though.” The sad glance Paul threw his way made him regret it. “Sorry.”

Paul turned to face him fully, and John struggled to look him in the eye. It felt like all his guilt was being manifested before him, into the one person he never wanted to truly hurt. “Listen, I’ve had enough of this,” Paul said seriously.

“Hm?”

“I want you to tell me why this is happening.”

John squinted, confusion muddling him. “What do you mean? What’s happening?”

“Why do you keep…” Paul huffed, scuffing a boot against the pavement. His sudden discomfort set John on edge. “Why are you _haunting_ me like this?”

“ _I’m_ haunting _you_? Christ, you’re the one who keeps popping in my dreams.”

“ _Your_ dreams?” Paul laughed mirthlessly until he caught sight of John’s expression. “Wait, you’re serious?”

“Mate, you’re just a…a _character_ my mind made up.” It hurt to ruin their little fantasy, but maybe admitting the truth would finally bring him some peace. ”A version of Paul who’s in love with me, who wants me back. A fantasy.”

The colour seemed to drain from Paul’s face. He stared back blankly before starting to shake his head, slowly at first and then sharply in distress as he paced around, repeating, “No, no, no. This isn’t happening. No way.”

John idly wondered if this was some manifestation of his own internal conflict, but Paul seemed too distressed even for his own mind. His reaction was disturbing, and John grabbed him firmly by the shoulders to put a stop to it. “Come now, what are you on about?”

“I’m not a character, John,” Paul insisted shakily, true fright in his eyes. “I swear to God. I’m…I’m _me_. The real _Paul_. And you”—he sucked in a breath, as if realizing something—”you’re the real John.”

“Of—of course I’m real—“ John struggled to keep up with what Paul was telling him. He felt as if the blood in his body, if he had any in this dream world, were seeping out of him. His hands fell from Paul’s shoulders numbly. _This is a joke. One big sick joke my mind made to teach me a lesson._ “No, this is impossible. I mean, you can’t be real! You can’t _share_ dreams with someone.”

“Yeah, I know that, John! But it’s fucking happening!” Paul paused in his flustering, swallowing hard. “ _Shit_. When you were upset with me in the studio the other day—“

“It was because even in my dreams, things couldn’t go right for us,” John revealed, face beginning to burn. “And I didn’t want it to be all in my head.”

“Well,” Paul offered, “I suppose it isn’t.”

“No.” Thoughts were racing through his head like mad and he didn’t know what to believe. He couldn’t allow this to be real. A reality in which Paul reciprocated his feelings was as far-fetched as any science fiction novel he’d ever read. It was crazier than the prospect of having mutual dreams with another person. ”I think this is getting a little too real for me.”

John began backing away. Anxiety curled in his stomach at the idea of Paul knowing all his vulnerabilities and desires the entire time they were together. It was more than embarrassment. It was shame and resentment and too many emotions for him to cope with at once. He couldn’t even begin to consider how Paul had kissed him back just as passionately, how he’d said he wanted him. It couldn’t be true. This had to be a warning from his mind, a message to keep his urges to himself for good.

“No, John, don’t run away from this.” Paul caught up to him quickly, insistently tugging on his sleeve. “This is just as crazy for me. Let’s talk about it, please.”

The sight of Paul pleading beside him, the feeling of their wrists brushing together, it was all too much for him. “I’m going to wake up now,” John said firmly, turning his eyes to the burning sky above. His vision was consumed in flames.

…

It was a Saturday morning. _Thankfully_. No need to see Paul and discern reality from fantasy. John would have the weekend to center himself, leave those bloody dreams in the past.

He was in the living room, sitting on the floor and watching Cynthia play with Julian, when a firm knock sounded on the front door. John shrugged at Cynthia’s inquiring glance, and she left to take care of whoever was harassing them so early. _Friend or foe, who will it be?_ He was in no mood for idle chatting after last night’s events. There was muffled talking, the click of the door shutting, and then the same voices speaking in the hallway. One of which was a deep and masculine tone he knew all too well. _Oh, fucking hell._

Paul appeared at the edge of the room, and John fought the urge to take off his glasses so reality wasn’t so sharp. Seeing Paul in such clarity reminded him too much of the dreams. He searched Paul’s face for any signs that last night was real and found tentative eyes looking back at him.

“Hello,” Paul said. He worried at his lip, an old habit, and peered around with uncertainty like he’d never been in their house before.

John made no move to greet him, remaining on the floor. He felt frozen in place, each muscle tensed like his body was preparing to escape. “Hi.”

Cynthia picked up on the stifling tension and quickly scooped up Julian in her arms. “We’ll...just be out for a walk,” she announced, ”alright?”

John nodded and watched her leave, looking at anything other than Paul as they were left alone in deafening silence. The lack of Paul’s usual charisma and confidence unsettled him deeply.

“Well, come in, then.” John gave a beckoning motion of his head and Paul entered the room, slowly.

“I hope it’s alright that I came,” Paul began. “I didn’t mean to barge in on you or anything.”

John shifted, fiddled with one of Julian’s toys. “Well, you’re here.” His eyes flickered back upwards. The sight of Paul standing before him while he was on the floor made his neck prickle with heat. _Not the time, John, not the time._ “Did you need something?”

Paul stared at him for a moment, then unceremoniously joined him on the carpet. They must have looked ridiculous: two of the most famous people in the world talking on the floor like children. “You know why I’m here, John.”

He already knew from the tone of Paul’s voice and the look on his face that the dreams were real. Somehow Paul had been there, inside his head and conscious the entire time, or maybe John had been in Paul’s head. Either way, it had really happened. The true Paul sitting before him, his closest friend and bandmate, knew his deepest feelings about him. And yet he hadn’t kicked John out of the band, or refused to speak with him. _At least, not yet. Maybe that's why he's here._

“...The dreams,” John acknowledged, and Paul gently nodded. “I...I really don’t know what to say. It’s hard to believe.”

Paul shifted a little closer, regarding him seriously. “Listen, we don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. I know the things you said weren’t meant for me to hear, not really, not the _real_ me.”

“Thanks,” John said, resisting the urge to run away.

“But…” _Why is there always a but?_ “I just want you to know that I was in control of everything I did. It was lucid for me.”

The confession was startling. John could barely comprehend that Paul had been conscious in the dreams, never mind an active participant in their activities. It seemed Paul was unaware, or at least uncertain, that John had been in control as well. He realized he could put an end to the mess of feelings he sensed approaching, tell Paul he’d been a helpless surveyor of what had happened between them. But that would be the greatest lie of his life.

“It was the same for me,” John admitted, but cold doubt wouldn’t stop crowding his mind. There had to be a catch. “Was any of it real for you? Or just something to fulfill your curiosity?”

“No,” Paul stressed, “it was real. To me, anyways. It felt real.”

“Everything you said? What we...” John glanced away, forced himself to finish the sentence. “What we did?”

“I wish I could say it was all pretend. It’s pathetic, really,” Paul’s eyes flickered down his body, ”what you do to me.”

John felt the mood shift between them like the flipping of a switch. Paul's eyes pinned him in place, a flicker of arousal sparking to life deep within him. “Come here.”

Paul's tongue darted over his lower lip as he moved beside John, eye contact never wavering. John reached out a hand, brushing along Paul’s jaw. Paul leaned into the touch as John buried his hand into silken hair. He watched Paul’s face with rapt attention, noting the part of his lips, the darkening anticipation in eyes that trailed down his face. A fantasy come to life.

“Do it,” Paul whispered. The command hovered in the air between them, urging him on, and it was John needed to close the gap.

Kissing Paul in his dreams paled in comparison to what John experienced then. Maybe because it was actually happening, and he knew his feelings weren’t unrequited. His pulse was racing under Paul's hands, skin burning where they connected. It was gentle, chaste, but it communicated everything unsaid desire and thought between them. Somehow it felt more dreamlike than ever.

Paul’s touch was feather light as he traced a hand up John’s bare arm, brushing his neck and then cupping his face as he pressed closer. He could hardly believe it was finally happening, that the Paul who he'd pined after for so long felt the same way about him. John had to pull away for a moment to look Paul in the eyes, to _see_ the reality he was living for himself.

“So it’s true?” John’s voice was barely a murmur between them. “You do want me?” He needed to hear it one final time, in a world where every word and action had consequences.

“Do I have to tell you again?” Paul smiled fondly, toying with the hairs at the nape of John’s neck. “Yes, John. I do.”

A burst of joy filled his chest and he gave Paul a firm kiss to express the bubbling happiness within him. Paul downright giggled, smiling against his mouth. _So it was real all along._

John supposed their lives would never be the same after this. It could break apart the band, possibly splinter their careers, but it would never damage them. What they had was buried too deeply to be uprooted by any attempts at eradication. John’s feelings for Paul could only grow with every moment he spent in his glowing presence, and the times he spent apart from him in longing.

_So dreams do come true._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
